The Caretaker of Lorne Field

by Dave Zeltserman

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there today.”

  “I know, pa.”

  “Your ma was telling me you almost carried your team on your back today.”

  Jack was in the middle of oiling his glove. He wiped off some of the oil and rubbed what was left deep into the leather.

  “My last at bat I was slow to the ball,” he said. “If I’d picked up on the spin faster I would’ve driven the ball over the fence instead of bouncing it off it. We would’ve won the game if I’d done that.”

  “Sometimes it’s a matter of inches, son.”

  “Yep.”

  His pa sat silent for several minutes. Jack kept rubbing the oil deeper into his glove.

  “Folks are saying you could be a big leaguer,” his pa finally said.

  Jack shrugged.

  “I’m sorry, son,” his pa said. “If it was up to me I’d make Joe the next Caretaker instead of you. But I can’t do it.”

  “I know, pa.”

  “Everything in the contract’s written for a reason. Any of us start messin’ with it and we’re all lost.”

  Jack nodded and kept his eyes on his glove. He tried hard not to cry. He didn’t want his pa to see him crying.

  “I know it ain’t fair,” his pa said. “I know it as well as anyone, son. But if I made Joe the next Caretaker, then what happens if he has two boys? Neither of them are going to want the job when the time comes. And they’ll have every reason to fight about it because I cheated with you. And then what? I can’t set that type of precedent, son, no matter how much I’d like to.”

  “You don’t have to explain, pa.”

  “But I want to. Nothin’ I’d want more than to see you have a chance playing professional ball. But if we start cheating on the contract, we got big problems. We have to follow the contract to the letter. This thing is bigger than you or me, Jack. Ain’t no job harder. You got the weight of the world on your shoulders. But you can do it, son. I got no doubt that you got it in you to be Caretaker. And as hard as the job is, people here will respect you for it. You’ll be saving their lives every day. It makes it easier knowing that. Most days it’s what keeps you going.”

  The sixteen-year-old version of Jack Durkin in his dream nodded and wiped a finger across his eye, trying hard not to let his pa see that he was wiping away a tear.

  Durkin woke up and realized he was crying in his sleep. He was ashamed of it, even though there was no one there to see it. He wiped a hand across his eyes, then lay in bed thinking about his dream. He tried to remember if he ever had had that talk with his pa and decided he hadn’t. He couldn’t even remember his pa ever eating dinner with them. It was just a dream, nothing more. His pa never talked to him about playing baseball. Never acknowledged that he was all-state or had set state records with both his twenty-two homeruns and .620 batting average. The only talk he could remember having with his pa about something other than his future as Caretaker was after his freshman year of high school. His pa suggested that he drop out of school since there was no point in continuing.

  As he lay in bed thinking about his dream, he realized it was the first time in years that he had thought about his pa. It had been almost thirty years since the old man died. After he had retired as Caretaker, he moved to Florida and only five years later dropped dead from a stroke. The funeral took place in August, and because it was held where his pa had retired in Bradenton, Florida, Durkin couldn’t attend. It always bothered him that they couldn’t have held the funeral back home, but he understood why. After so many years of weeding Aukowies, his pa wanted to spend eternity as far away from Lorne Field as he could.

  Jack Durkin peered at the clock until his eyes focused. It was only two thirty-seven in the morning. He closed his eyes again, hoping he’d be able to get some more sleep. It was the first dream he could remember having since he was maybe five or six years old, and he hoped it would be his last.

  The next four days Jack Durkin didn’t know what else to do but to keep going back to the Rusty Nail for dinner. He had no other food left at home, he had no money and he didn’t even know what bank Lydia kept their money at—and even if he did, assuming there was still even any money in their account, he wouldn’t be able to get there during business hours. Each time he went back to the Rusty Nail, Charlie’s attitude seemed cooler. That fourth day Charlie asked him about Sheriff Wolcott sticking his hand into a clump of Aukowies.

  “I heard he did that,” Charlie said, his voice strained. “How come they didn’t bite his fingers off like they did Lester’s thumb?”

  “’Cause they didn’t.”

  “That’s not a good enough answer, Jack.”

  Durkin peered at Charlie and saw the hostility brewing over his old friend’s face. The muscles bunched up along the bartender’s neck and shoulders, the same as if he were about to throw a drunken troublemaker out of his bar.

  “Because they knew they could cause me more trouble by not doing anything,” Durkin said.

  “You’re kidding. That’s your explanation for it?”

  “It’s the truth, Charlie. I could see it in their faces. Somehow they knew.”

  Violence passed over Charlie’s face like a storm cloud. He stood clenching and unclenching his fists, but the violence mostly petered out.

  “According to Sheriff Wolcott they’re nothing but weeds,” he said, his voice tight. “Unless you’ve got cash to pay for your food and drink, you better leave.”

  Durkin left. When he got home he sat listening to his stomach rumble and tried to figure out what to do. He couldn’t think of anything else, so he called Hank Thompson.

  “Jack, how are you holding up?” the attorney asked on hearing Durkin’s voice.

  “Not so good.” Durkin hesitated, feeling sick to his stomach having to beg this way. “I don’t know if you heard, but Lydia left me.”

  “No, Jack, I didn’t hear. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t know what to do, Hank. She took the car. I have no money and no food in the house. I don’t even know what bank she uses. If I can just make it another seven weeks or so until first frost, I can straighten everything out then—”

  “Jack, not another word. How about I drive over and pick you up. There’s an all-night supermarket out on Route 30.”

  “I hate putting you out like this, Hank.”

  “It’s no bother, Jack. Just hold tight and I’ll be over soon.”

  Twenty-five minutes later Hank Thompson pulled his Cadillac into the dirt driveway. When Durkin got in the car, Hank offered him a handshake, then pulled the car onto the road leading away from the cabin.

  “Must be quiet in there with Lydia and the boys gone,” Hank said.

  “I’m used to quiet.”

  “Still a shame for this to have to happen. Jack, I’ll be deposing Lester next week. I’m hoping to shake the truth out of him so we can get him and Bert back home. Maybe if that happens Lydia will follow.”

  Durkin didn’t say anything.

  Hank cleared his throat and mentioned that the sheriff was spreading it around town that the only thing growing in Lorne Field were weeds. “He claims he stuck his hand in a bunch of them and nothing happened?”

  Durkin felt a tightening in the pit of his stomach. He nodded miserably.

  “Any idea why they left his fingers alone?”

  “I don’t know. I wish they had bit them off.”

  Hank laughed uneasily at that. “So do I,” he said. “At least his pinky finger. Not that I wish too much ill will on our good sheriff, but it would make things easier for us. I’ve got a confession to make, Jack, and I hope it doesn’t make you mad. When I was twelve I snuck down to Lorne Woods and watched your grandpa weeding them.”

  “You saw what they were then.”

  Hank nodded. “They weren’t weeds. I can’t say why, exactly. It’s nothing concrete I can put my finger on, but I knew watching them that they were something other than weeds. And when your grandpa pulled them out of the ground, I swear I cou
ld hear something. Kind of like this shrill noise, almost what you’d expect from a dog whistle, but I’m positive I heard it.”

  “Their death cry,” Durkin said.

  “That’s what you call it? I thought that sound was going to make my ears bleed. Anyway, it’s always bothered me that I violated the contract. I apologize for that, Jack.”

  They drove in silence for the next ten minutes or so, then Durkin told the attorney why the Aukowies resisted biting off Wolcott’s fingers. “I don’t know how they knew they could cause more harm for me, but somehow they did.”

  Durkin looked over and saw the belief in the older man’s face. He swallowed back a sob and bit down hard on his tongue to keep any more from coming up.

  “If my grandpa had known he would’ve skinned you alive,” Durkin said. “But that was a long time ago. The statue of limitations must’ve run out years ago.”

  Hank laughed good-naturedly. “That’s statute of limitations. But thanks for the absolution, Jack. It’s kept me up nights hoping none of you ever fell sick and couldn’t weed that field. I lost many a night’s sleep during my lifetime over that transgression.”

  Hank pulled into the supermarket’s parking lot. Once inside he told Durkin to load up his cart with whatever he wanted. “Only a small payment for services rendered,” he said.

  As they went up and down the aisles, Durkin chose frugally, adding to the cart only the cheapest cans of baked beans, sardines, tuna fish and hotdogs he could find. Hank shook his head watching him.

  “Christ, Jack, that’s no way for a grown man to eat,” he said. He brought a reluctant Durkin over to the meat department and had the butcher select several pounds of sirloin steaks, lamb chops and pork loin. Then he did the same at the deli counter, loading the cart with roast beef, ham, salami and an assortment of cheeses. After that he added packages of baked goods. When they checked out the bill came to well over a hundred dollars.

  “When I get my affairs straightened out I’ll pay you back,” Durkin told the attorney.

  “Absolutely not,” Hank said.

  They drove silently back to the Caretaker’s cabin, but it was a comfortable silence. Hank helped him bring the grocery bags inside, and at the door when he was leaving, told Durkin not to worry about a thing and that he would call him after his deposition with Lester. Later, when Durkin was unpacking the groceries, he found two hundred dollars tucked in one of the bags.

  The next week Durkin’s spirits were as good as they’d been in years. Having a cupboard and refrigerator stocked full of food was a big reason for it, but an even bigger reason was not having to ride Lester’s mountain bike into town any longer. It was bad enough that a day of weeding Aukowies left his muscles aching and his feet killing him, but the last thing he wanted to do after that was get on a bike and pedal for an hour so he could beg for food at the Rusty Nail. He was grateful he no longer had to do it. Accepting Hank’s charity didn’t seem nearly as bad, mostly because the older attorney believed in what those Aukowies were. Hank Thompson didn’t have any doubts, unlike the rest of them. It was a relief not having to ride into town so he could see doubts—or in some cases outright disgust—creeping onto faces when the townspeople saw him. It was a blessing to simply be able to go home after his weeding, eat dinner and soak his feet. While it was quieter in the house than he’d like, he was comfortable by himself. Maybe at times he’d find himself missing Bert and, to a lesser degree, Lydia and Lester, but he found the emptiness of the house peaceful. At least he didn’t have to see his own family doubting him, or worse, acting as if he were a joke.

  A week after Hank had taken him food shopping he got a call from Hank that Child Services was delaying the deposition. “It’s probably going to be pushed back another couple of weeks,” the attorney told him. “Nothing to worry about, Jack. Just red tape, that’s all. Child Services can be a real pain in the ass.”

  It was ten days after that call—a Monday—that Jack arrived back at the cabin after a day of weeding Aukowies to find boxes and furniture stacked up on his front yard. A padlock had been put on the door. There was also a notice nailed to it. In the early dusk, it was hard to read. Durkin had to strain to make out the single word SEIZURE that was printed in larger letters than anything else. He gave up and searched through the boxes until he found a flashlight. Then he went back and read the notice, read how the town council had terminated the Caretaker position and that the cabin and all associated lands were being seized by the town. If Durkin or anyone else entered the house they’d be arrested for trespassing. He read the damn notice half a dozen times before his anger subsided enough for him to think over the situation.

  How in the world can I keep weeding that field now? he thought. What am I supposed to do?

  He sank to the ground, his mind and body numb.

  It struck him then that he was no longer bound by the contract. Not if the town was going to cancel it. Which meant for the first time in his life he was free. But free for what? To live aimlessly for the next eight days while the Aukowies grew out of the field and matured? And then to watch the world end?

  It wasn’t his concern anymore, he told himself.

  He was no longer Caretaker.

  Best of all, it would no longer be his fault when the world comes to an end.

  That thought left him dizzy. It would no longer be his fault. He no longer had to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders. He was absolved. Free. If the town could turn their back on him, why couldn’t he do the same?

  But the world would still come to an end, regardless of whose fault it was.

  Lydia would still be chewed up by the Aukowies, her small, hard-as-nails body turned into mincemeat. The same would happen to Bert and Lester. And every other living creature.

  With a leaden heaviness weighing down his heart, Durkin realized it didn’t matter that they turned their backs on him. The field still needed to be weeded. The world still needed to be saved. And that responsibility fell on him.

  He sat for a few minutes sorting out his thoughts. After making up his mind about what to do next, he unpacked the boxes looking for his contract and the Book of Aukowies. He went through all of the boxes without finding them, which didn’t surprise him since whoever packed up the house had no clue about his hiding place in the basement. He did find his wallet in one of the boxes. It had been packed away since he never took his wallet with him when he weeded Aukowies. There was no point in doing that. He wished he had when he opened the wallet and saw that the two hundred dollars Hank Thompson had given him was gone.

  It would be so damn easy to just turn my back on them. So damn easy . . .

  But as much as he wanted to, holding his empty wallet before all those boxes scattered on his front yard, he couldn’t just walk away.

  The food from his refrigerator had been packed in a couple of the boxes and left in the sun to spoil. He sniffed the salami and sliced American cheese, decided they were still okay, and made a sandwich. He ate it slowly, then found the container of milk, sniffed it also, and poured out the spoiled contents. Fortunately, Hank had added a case of soda to his shopping cart. Jack Durkin found a can in one of the other boxes and drank it. When he was done with his dinner, he got to his feet and walked around to the back of the house.

  When Durkin left that morning the back entranceway to the kitchen was covered by a screen door and an almost equally flimsy wooden door. The outer door’s paneled windows would’ve been easy to punch out so the door could be unlocked. Both doors had since been replaced with something solid, and a padlock and seizure notice were attached to it. Jack Durkin hit this newer door with his fist several times and saw that he had little chance of breaking through it. He walked around the house sizing up his windows and settled on one in the kitchen. He broke the glass, cleared it away and used several of the boxes as a makeshift stepladder. The phone and cord had been packed away in one of the boxes. He took them with him, along with the seizure notice that he ripped from the back door, and c
rawled through the window.

  It was awkward getting his thick body turned around and onto the kitchen countertop, and worse to lower himself to the floor, but he did it without cutting himself on any of the glass he’d broken. He turned on the lights. With the kitchen emptied out and all of Lydia’s clutter removed from the countertops, the room looked small and foreign to him. He plugged the phone into the jack and heard a dial tone and was thankful they hadn’t cut off phone service yet.

  He called Hank Thompson and told him that his house had been seized.

  “Whoa, slow down, Jack, tell me again what’s going on.”

  “I came home today from weeding and found everything I own on the front yard with a padlock and notice on the door. According to the notice, the town council cancelled my Caretaker’s contract and had my house seized.”

  “Do you have the notice nearby?”

  “Yep. I can read it to you.”

  “Please do.”

  Durkin read the attorney the seizure notice. When he was done, Hank’s voice sounded unnaturally tinny as he told him that the town had no right doing this. Durkin realized this was the first time he had heard Hank Thompson scared.

  “They have to notify you first, Jack. They can’t just storm into your house like Gestapo agents. This is America, for God sakes. It’s not right. I promise you I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Wait a minute . . . Jack, where are calling from?”

  “My kitchen.”

  “You’re inside the house?”

  “Yep.”

  “That’s not good, Jack. You don’t want to give them any excuses to arrest you.”

  “They left the Caretaker’s contract in the basement. I’m getting it.”

  “Okay, I understand,” Hank said, sounding almost panicked. “Get your contract as quickly as you can and leave the house. I’ll head over there now and meet you out front.”